


They Exist in the Spring

by bikadoo_2



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mentions of Character Death, My attempt at fluff, mentions of rape/non con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 08:45:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15263745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bikadoo_2/pseuds/bikadoo_2
Summary: They have battled winter together, but spring is born with their babe.Or … how a babe with grey eyes brings Jon and Sansa together.





	They Exist in the Spring

**Author's Note:**

> Well... guess who is making a rare appearance? Life has been insane this past year and I apologise for dropping off the radar. I sort of broke up with a long term boyfriend, moved states, got a new job, moved houses, and have just got a promotion! Hectic hectic time. 
> 
> Enjoy this one shot and leave some feedback if you have a moment. I'd appreciate it. 
> 
> All my love, Em.

They marry beneath a tree with bleeding flowers.

Snow falls, words are spoken, and then they are one.

His cloak is heavy on her shoulders, but she does not buckle. She is in the Godswood of her family, although it has suffered in this war too. Fire and blood, she recalls, are the words of House Targaryen. _Fitting._

The small Southern Queen takes the second highest seat on the dais, and watches the celebrations with a smile on her face. She claps when they begin to dance, and wears silver bells in her hair. Jon calls her Aunt, and Sansa wishes to retch.

Sansa has been strict in her instruction as Queen in the North; she is not to bear the name Targaryen.

The white-haired Queen had been annoyed, but Sansa did not sway.

“ _Our children shall be Starks.”_

The Queen conceded, eventually – which is why Sansa now wears the cloak of red and black.

“ _For symbolism, Sansa.”_

She spends most of the feast staring at the freely poured Dornish wine, and the bounty of food. When she was a girl, feasts were a rare past time and she would plead with her mother to attend; but now Winterfell’s coffers weigh as heavy on her mind as the cloak covering her shoulders.

When they call for the bedding, Sansa does not buckle.

 _Let them see their Queen,_ she thinks, as a gaggle of men tear at her gown of white and grey, _let them have their fun._

She is delivered to their bedchambers with only her shift covering her dignity, but she does not shy away from their touch. She is no longer a girl of but four and ten; she is the Queen in the North, and she will not buckle.

Sansa waits on the bed, for Jon to arrive.

He is stripped of his tunic, and his breeches have been unlaced. There is giggling in the doorway, but Sansa does not care to look at the ladies.

“Leave,” She barks, for she no longer cares if they see her as she truly is.

 _The Queen wears a frown like she wears a gown,_ they will whisper the next day, giggling once more, _her beauty is wasted on her grouchiness._

The door slams shut, and shakes their chambers.

Smoke burns her nostrils, as she recalls his words once more. _Fire and blood._

Sansa thinks of bloodied sheets, and bruised flesh. “There shall be no blood from me tonight, my King.”

“Sansa…”

She turns her back to him, unable to meet the grey eyes. For she can only see the Sept of Baelor, and blood staining stone.

“You have a long journey on the morrow, your grace,” She says, fingering the hem of her fine shift. The embroidery was delicate, and if she was but a younger girl, she may have allowed it to please her.

_But I am no child._

“If you wish to take me,” Sansa continues, counting the stitches in her shift, “it best be now, for I will fall asleep otherwise.”

She thinks he will say her name again, a sigh on his lips, but instead she can feel the bed dip, and the furs move.

Sansa glances over her shoulder, only to see Jon’s scarred back turned towards her. _The winter hasn’t been kind to him either,_ she thinks, as her mind goes to the sight of her scarred spine. The fire crackles in the corner, and she wonders if this is how it shall be between them. _Fire and blood._

“Sleep, Sansa,” Jon finally says. “I shall not touch you tonight.”

“No,” Sansa objects, jutting out her chin. “We are wed. We must.”

Jon shakes his head, exasperated. “It is not a real union, Sansa. We need not-“

“It is a fine match,” Sansa says, her fingers coming to the collar of her shift. She stands then, away from the bed. His eyes flicker to the body, illuminated under the light of the fire. _See me for what I am, husband,_ she thinks, wine on her breath and thoughts of the South clouding her mind. _I am no sister._

“Aye, my Aunt has told me.”

Sansa thinks of the letters then; the promise given.

“You needn’t feel guilty, Jon,” Sansa speaks his name freely, watching as his head snaps up. “I consented to the match. And Winterfell needs its heirs.”

A shadow comes over his face as he turns to her. “Is that why you married me, Sansa? For heirs?”

_“When you’re old enough, I’ll make you a match with someone who’s worthy of you.”_

Sansa does waver under his stare.

The fingers at her shift dance over her collarbone before they go to the strings at her neck. _Steady fingers,_ Septa Mordane once told her, _and steady mind._

Sansa thinks of Winterfell full of dark haired children.

Sansa thinks of her father; kind, and honourable.

Sansa thinks of him, when her shift drops to the floor.

“Look at me, Jon,” Sansa urges, her mind full of ultimatums and prices. _A King for a babe._ “I am yours now, after all.”

Eyes of ice meet stone; fury meets fury.

He stands, rounding the bed to stop before her. He is nearly four inches taller, but height does not break their gaze. His hand comes to finger her braid, his eyes holding storm clouds within them.

“Aye, you are,” He murmurs, before he takes her.

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t look at her, after that night.

She can feel his anger as he mounts his horse to ride South; his fury the fire people whisper about.  

“Do you feel like a dragon, your grace?” Brienne asks, as they walk in the Godswood.

Sansa stares hard at the bleeding tree, before which she was wed. It weeps today – crying for the men that march towards the capital. Sansa recalls the white-haired woman with bells in her hair, and the roar of the creatures at the wall.

“No,” She admits freely. “I doubt I ever shall.”

“Well,” Brienne begins, “your husband does not have their look.”

_“When you’re old enough, I’ll make you a match with someone who’s worthy of you.”_

Her father’s words tickle her ears, a breeze that takes the wood.

She closes her eyes, and his grey orbs meet hers. They are the eyes of her father, and of her sister. She thinks of warm flesh, and torn laces; of a burning fire that roared in the hearth of her chambers. She can see the Sept of Baelor then, and blood that stained the marble steps.

“No,” Sansa says. “He has the look of my Aunt.”

Her chambers are cold, save for the fire that burnt in the hearth.

Lodgings and correspondence whisper her name, but she is trapped before the fire – gazing into its core. Jon’s letter is in her hand, telling her of the court. She wishes to throw the parchment into the flames, to see the slanted writing burn in the blaze before her. _It is different,_ he writes, and Sansa wishes to retch once more.

The South is where her nightmares belong, she wishes to write back. The South is where her father died, she wishes to scream. The South is where Starks die, she wishes to cry.

A hand curls at her gut, where nausea runs free.  

She knows she should write, before the Maester does.

Maester Twine came with the Queens party, and filled the place left by Luwin so long before. Sansa is not fool enough to think he served her just yet, and so she knows she must tell her husband of the news.

But the King in the North is a stranger wrapped in the skin of kin, and she has no words for him.

 

* * *

 

 

She struggles to kneel, when her husband rides through the gates of Winterfell.

She is but two moons from birth, and the babe within her stirs restlessly.

The trees are coming into leaf; for spring reigns now. Flowers bud, and the animals that hide within the wolfswood revel in the melting snows. Sansa gazes deeply at the trees around her; their greenness a kind of grief that she cannot escape. _Winter is gone, and so are the people that succumbed to it._

Flowers sprout in the destruction of the cold, and she hates it.

The King in the North stands before her with an intent gaze, his eyes focused on hers before they travel to her belly.

“Stand, please,” He murmurs, as he offers Sansa his hand.

She rises, her thighs trembling as she places a hand on her stomach. The babe kicks, and shifts, dancing within the depths of her abdomen. It reacts only this way when she bathes, or when it snows.

Ghost nudges her belly, sniffing deeply.

The babe flips once more.

“My King,” Sansa says, bowing her head. He does not look so different than the last time she laid eyes on him - her mind burning with thoughts of callused hands and sharp teeth. “How were your travels?”

“Bleak,” Jon murmurs, his grey eyes burning as his fingers twitch. For a moment, she thinks he will touch her belly – where _his_ child swells.

“ _Someone who’s brave, and gentle, and strong,_ ” her father whispers, a haunting beside her.

The spring wind blows around them, bringing the ghosts of her past with it. Sansa wishes to look away from her husband, a man that resembles a haunting in her memories.

“Come, then,” Sansa murmurs, “there is food, and wine waiting for you.”

She has spent seven moons without him, and so his presence is that of an alien in her chambers. He stands, rather awkwardly, as Sansa pulls off her cloak. Jon stares intently at the small tunics she has sewn for the babe, which lay strewn over her table, before his eyes travel to the lodgers and correspondence.

Sansa wonders if he shall scold her, for pushing herself. She has but one more moon before she is forced into confinement, and she was not ill enough to let Maester Twine handle matters of the North. If she was so to listen to everything the eccentric Maester was to ask of her, her bedchambers would become a prison she is trapped within.

Sansa will not become a hostage within her own walls, that she is sure.

“Lord Lannister writes that you have finally pushed out the last of the outlaws?”

Jon looks surprised she knows such things, or cares, for that matter. Sansa wishes to rip the surprise from her husband’s eyes, and tell him that he did not marry a woman who faints over gowns and frets over feasts. _I am not as I once was, husband. The South made sure of that._

“Just about,” Jon says gruffly, but Sansa hadn’t expected anything less. She turns, opening her mouth to ask him another question, to find his eyes once again on the swell beneath her gown.

Sansa places a hand atop her belly, urging the babe to settle.

Sometimes, in between dressing or when she bathes, she too will find her eyes trapped to the swell of her gut. Ugly purple marks now mar her skin, but Sansa thinks they are a fine price to pay for a babe of her own. _Besides,_ she recalls thinking, _my skin is a collection of prices I have paid._

Jon doesn’t look away when his face folds in pain.

“I have missed too much.”

She thinks of the night they wed; a black and red cloak quickly torn from her skin. His touched had burned, but his kiss had ensnared her. Fire and blood, she recalled thinking, as she lay beside her husband in a mess of limbs. _He is fire._

“You’re back now,” Sansa says simply, pushing away thoughts of the South and a white-haired Queen. 

 

* * *

 

 

She watches him from her window.

He has long since shed the armour of dragon scales, and iron; instead, wearing a jerkin and a coat of fur. He speaks to the blacksmith, and the Master at Arms. If she allows her mind to deceive her, she can see her father – dark haired, and grey eyed, and _alive._

A wave of pain washes over her.

 _He is not father,_ she thinks, _he is my husband._

Sansa ignores the guilt, as she always does, when her eyes return to him. She ignores the pleasure she had felt bloom in her chest at the thought of her father, here in Winterfell, rather than deep within the crypts. She ignores the disappointment she feels, when her logic whispers his name. _Jon, Jon, Jon._

He sits beside her when they eat; the people of Winterfell sneaking glances to their reunited King and Queen. Sansa does her best to ignore the inquisition of curiosity, as she pushes mutton around her plate.

“Arya has written.”

Sansa is so shocked Jon has spoken, she can barely form a response before he’s speaking again.

“She is riding North,” Jon continues. “She wishes to be here for when the babe is born.”

Sansa’s hand comes to the swell beneath her lilac gown, hurt blossoming in her chest. She hasn’t seen Arya in more than a year, for her sister would rather spend her time in Storms End. There is a part of Sansa that looks upon her sister with envy; envious of the freedom she has, envious of the power she holds.

Arya returned to Sansa’s side with a blade in hand, and names on her lips.

 _“I need no knight to protect me now,_ ” Arya had whispered, when Sansa had finished weeping.

Jon catches her gaze then. “I thought to have her old room readied. I’ve already told Ser Crasten to prepare it.”

“Good,” Sansa says with a nod, her fingers tracing the lines of her gown. “She should be here, with her family.”

She wishes to say Arya belongs in a place with snow and weirwoods; rather than a keep surrounded by seas.

But she cannot, for she remembers her promise.

 _“I will never keep you from him, sister,_ ” She had whispered, after her sister had launched herself into the arms of a blue-eyed blacksmith. “ _Our suffering must end in Winter.”_

Jon looks up, his gaze intense. Unspoken truths hang between them like storm clouds. Tully eyes meet Stark grey, and Sansa wishes to speak freely with the stranger she calls a husband.

But her words die in her throat as they always do.

 

* * *

 

 

“You look enormous.”

Sansa glowers at her sister.

“You know, Arya,” Sansa begins, “I can still send you to the silent sisters, as head of your house.”

“Aye, you’re still as much of a pain as usual,” Arya snaps, sitting at the foot of her bed. Her hair has grown longer, and her skin seems more weathered – three shades darker than Sansa’s. _Spring has been kind to some,_ Sansa thinks, her heart swelling at the sight of her sisters smile. “I don’t know why I thought the babe would change you.”

Sansa leans back in the furs, looking over her belly to glare at her sister. She couldn’t hold the anger for long, though; for Arya wore a smile.

“You look different,” Sansa murmurs. “I suppose Storm End is treating you well?”

“Well enough,” Arya says, unfazed by her sister’s insinuation. “Jon says you think it will be a boy.”

Sansa nods absentmindedly, thinking of a boy with dark curls and grey eyes. A boy she calls _Eddard,_ in her dreams.

“I have quite a good chance,” Sansa teases.

Arya is quiet for a moment, before she looks out to the windows. The trees bloom with spring flowers, and the yard bustles with the mercenaries from winter town. “Are you happy, Sansa?”

The babe rolls in her gut.

“It was a good match,” is all she says, thinking of her father’s promise of a brave and gentle man.

When Jon comes to her that night, she finds herself rambling.

“Do you remember the stories Old Nan once told us?”

Jon looks up, surprised that she was mentioning their shared past. He always does seem surprised, surprised that she was using his name, surprised that she was paying attention. Guilt tugs at her gut, and she thinks back to their wedding night – when she had offered herself as a wife.

“Unfortunately,” he responds dryly, scratching his neck as he sits as far away from her as he can.

“I don’t know what happened to her, in the end,” Sansa admits, her hand trying to soothe where the babe was pushing against her ribs. “I don’t know when she died.”

The fire cracks between them, filling the silence.

“I don’t know a lot of things, really,” Sansa admits, watching as her husband turns his back to her. “I was in the Vale for the most of the war.”

“I know.”

Sansa looks up, surprised that he had spoken. “You do?”

“I know Lord Baelish died,” He mutters, standing up. “And I have a good enough mind to understand why.”

He is standing before her now; so close that she has to crane her neck to meet his gaze.

She opens her mouth to say something, but he beats her to it, “Did he suffer, Sansa?”

Sansa thinks of bloodied sheets, and bruised flesh. Smoke fills her nose, and suddenly, she is in that room once more, pleading for mercy.

_I have always begged for mercy._

“Of course,” Sansa says simply. “He was a traitor, after all.”

“I know,” Jon says, his gaze tormented. “I know what he was.”

Her hands fist the furs around her. “You do?”

_“Someone who’s brave, and gentle, and strong.”_

“I hate that I wasn’t there,” He murmurs, before he straightens his spine and clears his throat. “But I am now.”

 

* * *

 

 

The babe comes in the night.

Pain rips through her side, and for a moment, she can see Maegors Holdfast and the Iron Throne. Her body is a map of Joffrey’s anger, and her nightmares are where he haunts her. She wishes to scream for mercy, but the King never does grant her mercy.

His mercy had killed Lady.

His mercy had killed her father.

 _An honourable death,_ he had spat, as her father’s sword took his head.

She can still see the blood, on the steps of the Sept of Baelor.

She can still hear the word traitor thrown at father’s corpse.

It is Jon that wakes her, in the end.

“Sansa, Sansa.”

They share a bed, but he rarely says her name.

Blinking her nightmare from her vision, she finds grey eyes starting at her. _Father._ Her stomach rolls, and nausea consumes her.

“I think your waters have broken.”

Sansa feels the wetness between her thighs, and the pain deep within her pelvis. It is a thousand times more intense than her moon blood, and she curses her Septa for ever telling such lies.

Her chambers are a flurry of action; midwives swarming as she labours.

Sansa thinks of her mother, delivering five babes in the dead of the night. She wishes she were here, beside her, but her mother’s bones are lost to the world and her crypt is empty.

When the seventh hour comes, she begins to weep. The pain isn’t easing, and she is surrounded by the ghosts of those she loved.

It is Arya, in the end, who sits beside her.

“Scream, then,” Arya urges, her grey eyes a steadiness in this hurricane. Her hand is wrapped tightly within her sisters, and she is a rock Sansa clings to. “You’re about to be ripped apart – there’s no point in trying to be a _lady_ about it.”

She spits the words out like a taunt, and suddenly Sansa is in the tower of the hand, being mocked by her younger sister.

“ _You are sisters_ ,” her father had once murmured, _“She is meant to challenge you, Sansa._ ”

So, scream she does; her agony a swan song that fills the keep.

“A cap of black hair, my Queen,” One of the wives’ murmurs. “A few more pushes, and your babe shall be here.”

With hearty pushes, and pained screams, her babe is born – screaming, and scrawling, and _red._

“A Prince, your grace!”

Sansa can barely see through her tears, but she is reaching for him. “Give him to me.”

Her son settles once placed in her arms, but his face is still scrunched up, his mouth still open and mewling. Sansa is bewitched by the sight of him, taking in his long fingers to his dark black curls.

She is in love, blindly.

His face is that of which she shall dream; his name the final word her tongue shall speak. His is a love that consumes her – no stone, no earth, nor boundless sea can tear it from her now.

_Oh, but spring has been good to her._

“Hello, my love,” Sansa whispers, tasting salt on her lips, “I am your Mama.”

“Seven hells,” Arya whispers from beside her.

Her sister is staring at her new son, her face a mask of awe.

“Eddard, Arya,” Sansa murmurs, looking back down to the boy in her arms. “For father.”

When Jon holds their son for the first time, he resembles the boy she had once known. The smile he wears seems large enough to break his cheeks; with small dimples poking through his beard.

Sansa’s heart swells.

“Grey eyes,” Jon breathes, and Sansa knows that he feels the same love as she.

Sansa eyes are drooping; her body succumbing to its exhaustion. “Like I hoped.”

 

* * *

 

 

Her babe grows fast.

Ned is the chubbiest baby she has ever laid eyes on, and Arya is quick to tell her.  Sansa finds herself marvelling at the boy who would fall asleep at her breast, and scream until held. He was hers; her little Stark.

Jon is in her chambers seemingly every hour of the day – fussing over little Ned. Sansa watches him with a smile, for she is no longer cheap on smiles.

Ned begins mewling, shifting in his father’s arms.

“Here, give him to me,” Sansa says from her chair. “He’s hungry.”

He suckles at her breast, settling comfortable against her. Her nose finds the crown of his head, and she inhales deeply; the smell of fresh snow meeting her. Sansa knows that she can stay within this room for the rest of her days, if it meant that she would have Ned beside her.

Her husband looks away, awkward.

Sansa cannot help but laugh. “Oh, come now Jon. You needn’t go green at the sight of my breasts.”

Jon flushes. “I did _not_.”

“You did,” Sansa retorts, an emboldened courage flaring within her. “I can remind you, Jon, that the reason we have our babe here is because you stared upon these very breasts…”

“Gods, Sansa…”

“… and took your rights as my husband,” Sansa teased, not able to keep her words back. For just a moment, there is no tension; no unspoken anger, nor hesitance. “I seem to remember it quite well.”

Jon’s face is blooming – a deep scarlet colour that resembled one of Sansa’s southron gowns.

But beneath his stoic reserve, his lips twitch.

 

* * *

 

 

Jon watches, as Sansa swims with their boy.

She is beautiful in the water – a Tully fish that burns bright in the spring.

Little Ned is held tight to her chest as she navigates the pond, her hair floating in the stream behind her.

Jon cannot help but smile.

“He likes the water.”

Sansa looks up at the sound of her husband’s voice, before her face breaks into a smile. She is beginning to smile more, for Ned has begun to respond to his mother’s happiness. Before, her smiles were reserved, small movements. _Smiles are expensive, Jon,_ she would say, when he questioned her.

“I think so,” Sansa says, as Ned splashed. He is large for a babe of only five moons – with unruly black curls, and grey eyes. _A true Stark,_ his wife declares proudly, when she fusses over him. “He is part fish, after all.”

Jon frowns. “I never did like swimming.”

“I remember,” Sansa murmurs, as she gives their babe a bright smile – only to illicit more excited splashing. “You were quite terrified of the ponds, if I recall. You would sulk for days after Robb pushed you in the ponds.”

“I wasn’t terrified,” Jon mumbles, causing his wife to laugh. It is a tinkering sound; bells that ring in his ears. They have been married for more than a year, and yet he has only heard the sound few times.

The Godswood erupts in green, for spring truly reigns now. He should be happy, but the Starks suffered in Winter, and so spring comes with uncertainty.

Sansa makes faces at Ned, before she says, “I thought you were to meet with Lady Mormont?”

“Aye,” Jon says with a nod. “I was just about to leave.”

Sansa doesn’t dare meet his eyes. “Is everything alright?”

She is splashing with their son now – both enraptured by the way the water ripples, and pulls. Ned catches their reflection, and hits the surface to rid the pond of it. His sons face adopts a pallor of disappointment at the re-appearance of the woman with red hair and her babe in the waters image; causing another laugh to leave his wife’s lips.

Jon’s chest tightens.

She is painfully beautiful; a fancy of boyhood dreams come true.

It seems spring is the kindest to Sansa Stark, for winter was so cruel. Of hands, of lips, of burning gazes, she masters beauty better than any God. If he were a better man, he would think his wife was a gift for all his suffering, but he knows for all that he relishes in her loveliness, her beauty has cost her.

Jon wishes to wrap her in his arms, and take away the shadows that haunt her.

Jon wishes to soothe her from the nightmares she suffers, and take away the memories of Southron keeps and golden princes.

“I wished to see you,” Jon admits, the words tumbling from his mouth before he can stop them.

Sansa meets his gaze – her eyes of ice melting before him.

Ned begins whining, his face scrunching up as Sansa tries to settle him. It’s to no avail, though, and their son begins to squall.

“Oh, sweetling, don’t cry,” Sansa hushes, bringing their son close to her chest. He rests his head in the crook her neck, his eyes drooping. “He is tired. Can you take him, Jon?”

He reaches down, plucking his son from his wife’s arms. Ned is quickly wrapped in a warm blanket – his cheeks reddening at the cold. He begins to whimper at the loss of his mother’s warmth, and so Jon begins to rock him, “Don’t cry, Ned. It’s just cold.”

Jon glances to his wife, as she stands from the pond. Her shift has soaked through, and her hair sticks to her neck; a flame against snowy flesh. He knows a better man would look away, but he cannot tear his eyes from the way her nipples darken at the cold, or the way the thin cotton clings to her hips.

Something stirs deep within his gut; something Jon has spent months ignoring.

_I want her._

“Come to Mama, my love,” Sansa says, her arms wrapping tightly around their son’s small body. Her eyes flick to his, and he can see everything; the way her back arched when he claimed her, and the small noises she made.

Jon clears his throat, unclasping his furs from his shoulders to wrap around his family. Sansa smiles brightly as the cloak falls heavily at her collarbone, a breathy laugh escaping her as she says, “Funny, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“You seem to have a habit of placing cloaks on my shoulders.”

His heart swells, and he thinks, _maybe spring shall be good to us._

 

* * *

 

 

He calls her name when he reaches his climax.

He imagines her snowy flesh, bruised by his lips.

He imagines nails scratching at his skin; teeth raking at her neck.

He recalls the way she sighed his name, when he entered her.

“Sansa, Sansa, Sansa,” shudders consume his body, his hand stilling.

Her eyes never leave his, in his dreams.

In his dreams, she wants him as he wants her.

For there is no guilt or dishonour in his imagination.

 

* * *

 

 

“Mama! Mama!”

Sansa waves at her boy as a peal of giggles leave his mouth. He is not yet a year old, but he is atop his father’s stead – his chubby hands fisting Snows hair.

“I see, my love!” Sansa calls back, grinning. She can feel the stares at her face, as they watch their King and Queen dote on their heir.

Jon’s hair has grown longer than she has ever seen it – bound now by a leather at the nape of his neck. Ned’s chubby hands fist it when Jon dismounts from his horse, the small toddler rattling away in his father’s ear.

“We should have a big feast for his name day,” Jon decides later, as they dine.

She’s surprised by her husband’s words; for he is the man who shuns feasts and celebrations.

“Oh?” Sansa asks, glancing over to where Ned is playing with Ghost.

“Arya should ride North,” Jon says with a nod.

“Arya is in Storms End, husband,” Sansa reminds him. “It is a long ride, just for a name day.”

Jon’s gaze is burning when he murmurs, “We are her family. She should be here.”

 

* * *

 

 

His sons name day passes with more fanfare than Winterfell has seen in moons.

Hundreds of people flood through the gates of the Keep, all to lay their eyes on little Prince Ned.

His small boy sits in Sansa’s lap, one of her necklaces in his mouth as they watch the minstrel. His unruly black curls have been pulled back by a small band; now resembling his father in every way. The strings are played loudly, and the ground almost shakes from the feet that take to the floor – twirling in Northern dances.

Ned giggles as Sansa bounces him on her knee – his eyes enraptured with the going ons of the feast.

Jon watches as his wife stands, taking their son to where the dancing is – his small body held tightly to her chest as she dances with him.

Something deep within his gut unfurls, hissing and violent, at the sight of his wife with their son.

“It is rude to look at her like that,” Arya hisses from beside him.

Jon blinks away the haze, turning away from where Sansa’s skirts spin like summer waves at her feet and where his son laughs.

“Like what?”

“Like you want to _eat_ her,” Arya snaps, her grey eyes blazing.

Jon opens his mouth to protest, but the desire is floundering within him; a fire that he cannot extinguish.

“It’s not very King-like,” Arya says in a tone of disgust.

“I wasn’t…” his voice trails off, his fists clenching at his side.

Thoughts of snowy flesh, and pink lips; of sighs and stolen kisses.

“Don’t worry, Jon,” Arya continues, pushing her hair from her eyes. “It’s not like she doesn’t look at you.”

His head snaps up.

“It’s disgusting,” Arya drawls, annoyance blazing in her grey eyes. “You both need a good fucki-“

“Arya!”

Her face is the picture of innocence as she holds up her hands, in mock surrender. “Gods, shoot me down. If you wished for no one to know, you should stop looking at her like she is a steak to be chomped on.”

“That’s enough,” Jon murmurs, his voice low as he blinks away thoughts of open legs and a pink middle.

Arya’s laughter is a bell, ringing through the hall. “You are a poor excuse for a King, Snow. You can’t even scare me with that tone – and I’m your _sister!_ ”

“Cousin,” Jon corrects, guilt gnawing at him.

Arya’s smile is sad as she whispers, “If you say so.”

Sansa holds Ned to her chest all night, until his eyes begin to droop and she has to admit defeat. Jon goes with her to the nursery, the scent of her perfume burning his nose. _She smells of spring,_ he thinks, as Sansa places their boy in his bassinet.

“He is so old, now,” Sansa muses, her hand coming to run through her babes curls. “He shall be a man before I can stop him.”

Jon swallows the lump in his throat, and ignores the burning in his groin.

_Snowy flesh, and pink lips._

“I hope he’s like you,” She murmurs, her eyes of ice shining with tears Jon wishes to brush away.

“Truly?”

Sansa looks back down to him, her hand resting on his rising chest. “Of course I do. You’re his father.”

Jon’s hands twitch, as if to reach out for her.

“And you’re a good man,” Sansa muses, tightening the blankets around Ned. “Kind, and honourable, and good. It’s why I consented.”

“Consented?”

“To the match,” Sansa murmurs, meeting his eyes then. Deep within her Tully gaze, there is a fire – unyielding and demanding. “I knew you would be a good father to my children.”

His lungs contract; his breath leaving him.

“And a good husband,” She whispers, and he can no longer bare it.

She tastes different than he remembers; wine on her tongue, and fire in her blood. His arms wrap around her waist, pulling her to him as he groans. He has imagined kissing her for moons, imagined her lips on his and her body close once more. She tastes as fire feels – a burning flame that survived the winter.

 _Gods, spare me,_ he thinks, before his desire consumes him.

They stumble to their rooms, fingers at laces, lips at skin.

Her teeth sink into his shoulder when his fingers rip her small clothes away, finding the pink flesh he has been dreaming of.

“Jon, Jon, Jon,” She whispers, his name a song on her tongue as his fingers enter her.

His desire is a fever – burning every space of skin, and leaving sweat in its wake. He pushes her skirts up, and his eyes drink in the sight of her, open and blushing.

“Jon,” She groans, and his lips are devouring her with a scream.

She tastes as fire feels, intoxicating and unyielding.

When she peaks, she comes with a cry.

Jon swallows it with a kiss, and Sansa tastes herself on his lips.

Her hands go to the back of her gown, unlacing the strings with a desperate need. She spills out of the material before Jon rips her shift away, his eyes a storm that screams of his hunger.

His lips nip at her neck before they go to her breast – wrapping around her nipple and suckling.

“Gods, Jon,” She moans, grinding her crotch against his heat.

“Patient, sweet,” Jon whispers, standing back to unlace his breeches. “I don’t want you to think I’m going green.”

Sansa’s eyes flash with confusion, before her face breaks into a smile – laughter tinkling from her breathless body.

Sansa watches as his breaches fall to the floor, her eyes trapped on the rod that juts out from the base of black curls. Jon brings a hand up, encircling it and giving it a squeeze. Eyes shut, he lets out a moan as it begins to leak – only for Sansa’s core to resume it’s burning.

“Come here,” Sansa beckons, opening her legs.

His lips are on hers once more, and his fingers are at the pinnacle of her core – rubbing on the small nub that exists beneath the red curls.

When he enters her, it is with a gasp. “Sansa, Sansa, _Sansa_.”

They move as one – each frantically meeting the others thrust as tension builds. A coil exists within them, tightening and tightening before it snaps, bringing with it rains of pleasure.

Jon kisses her once more, his tongue exploring her mouth.

_She tastes of spring._

_She tastes of fire._

 

* * *

 

 

Jon wakes, bleary eyed and naked.

The sun is peeking through the window, the stained glass lighting up the room in a spiral of colours.

He remembers it all, but how could he forget?

“Good morning,” Sansa murmurs, and he looks up.

She is leaning against the wooden headboard, her scarlet hair a veil of fire over her shoulders. Ned is in her arms, sitting on her bent knees and bouncing, while she wears a smile that could rival even the loveliest summers day.  

Her lips are at her son’s ear when she whispers, “Say hello to Papa, Ned.”

“Papa, Papa!” His son repeats, reaching for him.

Jon takes Ned in his arms, marvelling at the small boy who rattles away the four words he knows. _Mama, woof, papa, out. Mama, woof, papa, out_. Jon listens to his babble with a broad smile, for his son is a welcome respite from years of storm clouds and ice; years of winter that claimed so many that Jon loved.

Sansa watches with a smile on her lips, her shoulders littered with the bruises of their love.

“Sansa,” Jon murmurs, as if testing what exists between them. He is always nervous around her, nervous to want her, nervous to love her.

_Don’t push away._

“Sansa…” He begins, his words turning to ash in his throat. The familiar waves of guilt wash over him, and he feels like a boy once more – apologising to the Lady of Winterfell for his very existence. “I will understand if you do not wish to… do not… if you regret…”

He trails off, unsure.

Sansa meets his gaze, and pushes herself over to him – capturing his lips in a sweet kiss.

Shock consumes him, before the fire of her kiss comes; burning through his skin, and waking him from his guilt.

“You slept in,” She whispers against his smile, before she pulls back.

Sansa Stark is more beautiful than spring itself, and Jon does not know how his life has become so full.

“I was tired,” He admits, garnering a laugh from his wife.

Her hands come to run through her black curls, pushing the hair from his face. “I know.”

Ned quietens as he bangs his fist against Jon’s chest, his large, grey eyes looking up at his father.

And Jon knows he wants a Keep full of children, with red hair and Tully eyes.

His words are like lead on his tongue as he says, “We should have another.”

Sansa looks up, her cheeks flushing. “Another babe?”

Jon thinks of times past; of a boy with Stark colouring and an heir with hair of red. His chest aches at the thought of Robb, at the thought of a man who went to war for honour and lost his head for love.

“Aye,” Jon murmurs, hesitantly meeting her eyes. “A babe with red hair, mayhaps?”

Sansa’s face holds no secrets, her mask becoming that of the player she was once forced to be. Sometimes, Jon forgets that Sansa is not as she once was. She smiles more now that their son is here, but she can never truly shake the ghosts that haunt her – her eyes carrying their names, and her body carrying the scars of her brother’s victories.

But the mask cracks, just for a moment, and he can see the happiness – the want for a family, large and bursting. They’re not so different in the end, despite how much they had resisted the other.

“There are very few Starks left,” Sansa whispers, shuffling closer to him so that she too can lean against his bent knee. She is unsure as she picks up Jon’s hand, tracing the constellation of scars that exist on his palm. “And this Keep has so many rooms, after all.”

She is quiet before she smiles – pressing a kiss to his palm.

“It would be a shame if we don’t fill them.”

Jon sweeps her into his arms, and presses kisses to her face, to the laughter of both his wife and his son.

The Starks have suffered through winter.

_But spring may be good yet._

 

* * *

 

 

They name their second son Robb.

Arya is not with Sansa for this birth – instead, Jon sits at her side, his hand in hers, his lips at her ear.

When the babe cries, so does she.

“Another healthy Prince, your grace!”

Jon is the first to hold the newest Stark boy, and not even the King can hold back tears then.

“How does he look?” Sansa asks, breathless, and tired.

“Like Ned,” Jon admits, and Sansa can tell, despite the awe and wonder, that there is disappointment within her husband.

When Sansa lays her eyes on her second son, she cannot help but smile.

“Oh, but he has your look, Jon,” Sansa says, rocking her newest babe against her chest and reaching up to kiss her husband. “Just as I hoped.”

But when the newest Prince opens his eyes it is a vibrant, Tully blue that meets them.

Jon does not hide his smile then. “Blue eyes, like his mother. Just as I hoped.”

 

* * *

 

 

Their first daughter is born on Neds fourth name day.

Mya is a small thing, with snowy flesh and hair of red.

Winterfell’s bells ring all day, when she is born.

The King himself cannot hide his joy – taking his daughter around the keep, wrapped in furs, so that she may be seen by all that he encounters.

“A bonnie babe, your grace!”

“Oh, and doesn’t she look just like Queen Sansa!”

Jon smiles wider.

It is Sansa, that introduces their sons to their newest sister.

“Careful, careful,” She murmurs, as Robb and Ned lumber onto her bed to get a closer look. “You must be gentle, boys – Mya is but a tiny babe.”

“And be gentle with your Mama, boys,” Jon says, tickling Robbs sides. “She is very sore.”

Sansa sends Jon a look of annoyance, for she knows the questions that will follow. Ned has only just stopped asking every question under the sun, but it seems Robb is more than happy to follow in his footsteps.

“But why are you sore, Mama?” Robb asks, his small face becoming pained. “What happened? Did you fall from the tree, like Neddy?”

“No, my sweet,” Sansa murmurs softly, watching as Ned shoves his brother.

“Don’t call me Neddy, Robb, I don’t like it.”

“Boys,” Jon warns, his eyes narrowing. “Remember what I said.”

“Yes, Papa,” they parrot, both peering over the furs in their mother’s arm.

Mya is smaller than both Sansa’s boys. She takes after her mother though, with red hair and eyes of blue. Sansa had toyed with naming the babe Lyanna, but then she remembered her time in the mountains, and the girl with haunting blue eyes.

“ _I_ _f it’s a girl,”_ Sansa recalls saying, in bed one night, “ _I wish to name her Mya.”_

“ _Mya?”_ Jon had asked, his hand tracing circles on his wife’s swollen abdomen. “ _It is a simple name, Sansa, but surely you would wish to name her for your mother?”_  

“ _She should not be haunted by that ghost, Jon,”_ Sansa had lied, for she had wished to name the babe Cat, but she was not a cruel wife. Her mother had never been kind to her husband. “ _And Mya was a good friend.”_

“She looks like you, Mama,” Ned whispers, coming to touch her hair.

“Gentle,” Jon echoes once more, and Sansa sends him a look.

“They’re fine, Jon,” Sansa warns, before she smiles at Ned. “Yes, my sweet, she does.”

Ned’s face is pinched in worry. “But … but why does she not have grey eyes, like me? Papa said she may have grey eyes. Why does Robb and Mya get blue eyes and I get stupid grey eyes?”

“Hey,” Sansa scolds, coming to wrap her spare arm around her eldest. “Your Papa has grey eyes, as does Aunt Arya. They are Stark eyes, my love, and your grandfather had them as well. Mayhaps when Mama has another babe, he or she shall share your grey eyes.”

“Another babe?” Jon asks, as Mya begins mewling.

Sansa shrugs, her smile bursting. “There are still many rooms to be filled, husband.”

Jon leans down, and hooks her chin in his fingers – laying a soft kiss upon her to his children’s disgust. “That there are, my love.”

 

* * *

 

 

Rickard comes in a storm.

His birth is her hardest, and when he finally does come, she bleeds.

Maester Twine pushes Jon from the room, a new son in his arms and the midwives swarm around their Queen.

The new babe screams, his cries echoed by the Kings as thunder shakes the keep.

“Papa?” Mya asks, blinking her tiredness from her eyes as she rounds the corner. She is but four years old, and yet she is the image of her mother; her hair kissed by the same fire Sansa was born.

Jon wipes his eyes, and tightens his hold on Rickard. “My wolf, what are you doing from bed?”

“I heard the baby,” Mya whispers, reproachful. She looks, carefully, to the bundle in his arms. “Is that baby brother?”

“Yes, my wolf,” Jon murmurs, before he glances back to the closed doors of his chambers. “Come now, Mya, you must go back to bed.”

Maester Twine opens the door then, his face relaxed. Jon turns away from his daughter, dread a coil in his stomach. “Well? Is she alright?”

“Healthy, your grace,” Maester Twine says. “Just some post-labour bleeding, which is perfectly normal.”

Jon bursts into the room, to see his wife propped up and pale.

“Gods,” Jon cries, as he captures her lips in his. “Thank the Gods.”

“Hush,” Sansa says weakly, her hand coming to lay atop his. “I’m quite fine.”

“Sansa,” Jon begins, pained, “are you sure?”

“I’m tired,” Sansa admits, cupping her husband’s cheek. Her eyes of ice have lost their light, but she attempts to smile, for his sake. “Don’t fret, my love. The woman’s battle is in the birthing bed, and I wouldn’t leave you like that.”

Jon kisses her once more, sending a silent thanks to the old gods and the new.

“Now,” She whispers. “Give me my babe.”

Rickard quietens once in his mother’s arms, and Sansa smiles broadly then – gathering him tightly against her chest. “Oh, Jon, he looks like Bran.”

Sansa pulls down her shift, letting Rickard feed at her breast. Like all their babes, he goes readily – hungry at his mother’s chest. His eyes scrunch open, and Sansa cannot help but grin.

“Ah, but Ned shall be happy,” Sansa murmurs, running her hand over her sons red curls, “Grey eyes, my love.”

“Mama?”

Both Sansa and Jon look up to see Mya standing in the doorway, still confused.

“Mya!” Sansa says, putting some energy into her voice. “My sweet, what’s wrong?”

“I heard Papa crying,” Mya admits, coming forward slowly. Jon is quick to lift her up, his nose coming to her wild curls of red.

Sansa casts a concerned gaze to her husband, noticing his red rimmed eyes, before she smiles once more.

“Happy tears, sweetling,” Sansa murmurs, beckoning for Jon to place Mya beside her. “You have a new baby brother after all.”

Jon wipes a hand over his face, and clears his throat, but the grief is fresh. He feels like a teenager once more – hearing the news that his father’s head rested on a spike in Kings Landing.

But there was something crueller about this grief; for the possibility of losing his wife was more haunting than any other pain he has felt.  

Sansa must see his torment, for she grasps his hand in his – raising it to her lips. “I love you, Jon. I’m healthy, too.”

Jon kneels at her side, and rests his head in her shoulder, pressing a kiss to her neck. He tastes salt on his lips, and he whispers, “Don’t do that again.”

“I will try not to.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Come back here, stupid!”

Mya runs after Robb, her hem three inches deep in mud as she runs past the Castellan and blacksmith. She is sure Septa Jern will be after her in mere moments, so she pushes her legs faster – her small body soon overtaking Robb as they race to the Godswood.

“You cheat, Mya!”

Robb is a sour loser, but Mya doesn’t care.

“You should have run faster!” She taunts, climbing up the weirwood and sticking her tongue out at her older brother.

“It’s no fair, you’re a cheat,” Robb snaps. “Mayhaps I should tell Mama-“

A stick is thrown at his head.  

“You little traitor,” Mya roars, pointing another stick at him. “Mayhaps I should tell Mama that you were the one that let Ghost out during the feast last moon!”

Another stick is thrown back at Mya, but she dodges it easily.

“Mya, you’re just as wicked as Maester Twine says you are.”

“Mya, you’re just as wicked as Maester Twine says you are,” Mya parrots, mockingly. She pushes her hair from her eyes, and jumps down from the tree. “Maester Twine is an old, bitter man. Even Papa thinks so. That’s why we have Maester Sam now.”

“No, we have Maester Sam because Papa is friends with him, and he needed a posting,” Robb says, puffing out his chest. “And because Maester Twine hates you.”

“I am a little girl,” Mya says with a shrug. “Why would he _hate_ me?”

“Because you set the Maesters Tower on fire!”

“I did _not_.”

“Did _to_.”

“Enough!”

Their father is standing at the entrance to the Godswood, his face reddening and his eyes narrowed. Ghost stands beside him, but even their fathers familiar knows he is angry – for he stays away from the children, rather than running to play.

Robb wilts, going to duck behind the weirwood at their father’s cross tone, while Mya juts her chin out. She knows he will be angry, but she can explain why she’s away from her lessons if he asks.

“What is the meaning of this?” Jon asks, crossing his arms. “Robb, come here, now.”

Robb’s bottom lip trembles at their father’s reproachful tone.

“You’re so green, Robb,” Mya hisses, shoving him with her elbow.

“Mya,” Jon snaps, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That is quite enough.”

Mya has the decency to look shamed, casting her eyes down to the pool.

“Out of your lessons, once again?” Jon asks, shaking his head. “And you, Robb, antagonising your sister? You’re mother has asked you to be kind-“

“I was, Papa!” Robb objects. “I asked her to play, and then she cheats.”

“I did not cheat,” Mya snaps, stamping her foot. “Robb said we were going to race to the weirwood, but he said I had to wait ten seconds because I’m younger and faster. But that’s unfair, Papa!”

“Enough, enough,” Jon says, practically exhausted. His eyes find Mya, and he bites out, “You shall go back to your lessons at once, and if I find you straying from Septa Jerns side once this sennight, I shall have you on my knee. Understood?”

Mya nods, her eyes brewing with anger.

Jon turns to Robb. “And you shall not ask your sister to play if you are to make it unfair, Robb. It’s not nice. If I find you two arguing again, I shall be very cross.”

“I’m sorry, Papa,” Robb whispers, scolded. “I won’t do it again.”

It is later, when Sansa is writing a letter to the South, that he complains.

“They are fighting again.”

Sansa sighs. “You let it bother you too much, Jon.”

“They are wild,” Jon groans, coming to sit rest his head on her shoulders. “I cannot keep threatening them.”

Sansa laughs, turning to look at him. “Was Ned with them?”

“No, he was with Sam,” Jon murmurs. “And Rickard?”

“In his lessons,” Sansa says, before she sees the burning in his gaze. “No, Jon, we mustn’t. I have so much work to do.”

“I can be quick,” He murmurs into her shoulder, nipping at her skin.

His lips come down on hers, and the letter to the south is quickly forgotten.

 

* * *

 

 

“Do you think she shall be nice?”

Ned glowers at Mya, his eyes narrowing as he adjusts his jerkin. “Mya, please, go away.”

“No,” Mya says, swinging around the post of her brother’s bed until she sits. “Are you nervous?”

“Mya,” Ned warns.

Mya laughs, standing up to stand beside him. “Oh, I’m just jesting, Ned. It’s not every day my brother meets his bride.”

Ned’s cheeks flush then, his hands fumbling over the clasp of his cloak. “Gods, I wasn’t nervous before you came into my bedchambers.”

“Sorry,” She says, genuinely. “If it’s any consolation, Ned, I snuck a peak at Alsyanne when father took me on progress three moons ago. It was when Mama was still going on about that Riverlands girl. She seems quite lovely, if I remember right.”

Ned nods, for he has heard all the rumours about Alysanne Karstark.

When the party from Karhold arrive at Winterfell, the horns blaze.

Ned stands tall beside his father, and ignores the way his mother fusses over him – puffing his chest out, and trying to push the nervousness away.

Mya is muttering something beneath her breath, as Rickard peers up with an expectant smile. His youngest brother is but nine years old, and yet he seems the most excited for the Karstarks to arrive.

Mya is right, in the end; Alysanne Karstark is very beautiful.

Her brown hair is wrapped in an elaborate, Northern braid, and she wears a gown of blue.

She watches him as he watches her; her blue eyes holding the truth of her anxiousness.

Ned doesn’t speak to her until the feast, summoning the courage to ask of the trip to Winterfell.

“It was … pleasant, my Prince,” Lady Alysanne says, wine staining her lips.

 _She is nervous,_ Ned thinks, _but so am I._

Prince Eddard smiles, and hopes he can put her at ease.

Sansa watches her eldest son with a keen gaze, half listening to her husband’s chatter to Lord Harrion. She watches as Ned begins to talk to his betrothed, using his hands to speak. It was a habit he had inherited from his father.

Ayra laughs in her ear at the sight. “Gods, he is already swooning.”

“Be nice,” Sansa warns, looking at the swell of her sister’s belly. It is Arya’s first babe, and she was determined to give birth in Winterfell.

“I always am,” Arya says, crossing her arms over her swollen gut. “Gods, I feel like as big as a wheelhouse.”

Sansa is tempted to quip that she looks it, but her manners turn the words to ash on her tongue.

“Only three more moons now,” Sansa murmurs, coming to pat her sisters stomach. “And then we shall have another Stark.”

“Snow,” Arya corrects, smiling indulgently at the swell beneath her tunic. “Or I suppose it shall be Storm, seeing as I married one.”

“It shall be a Stark,” Sansa insists. “You have already accepted the legitimisation.”

“Because Jon offered it,” Arya retorts.

Sansa rolls her eyes, opening her mouth to respond when her daughters tinkling laughter interrupts.

Mya sits beside Robb, and at four and ten, she is more beautiful than summer itself.

“Have you spoken to Jon, yet?” Arya whispers, her eyes also on her niece. “About the proposal?”

Sansa shifts uncomfortably.

“He knows.”

“And?”

“He wishes for her to choose,” Sansa says, her annoyance at her husband slipping into her tone.

Arya meets her sisters gaze then. “You do not wish her to?”

“She would have to go South,” Sansa murmurs, her gut twisting painfully. “And Starks die when they go South.”

Arya is quiet for a moment, before she speaks, “Times have changed, Sansa.”

Sansa cannot hide her shock, for if vengeance had a name, it would be Arya.  

“Arya says times have changed,” Sansa murmurs later that night, her breath coming out uneven as Jon collapses at her side. She sends a prayer to the old Gods and the New that his seed quickens within her, for she would love another babe. Rickards birth was hard on her body though, so she does not hold out hope for another room to be filled. “She says I should consider the betrothal.”

Jon’s eyes are soft as they appraise her.

“I don’t know what to do,” Sansa admits, turning on her side to stare at him. “If we agree, if we allow her to choose, she shall have to go South. When father took me South, he died, and I was beaten and then Mother died, and Robb too, and then I was rap-“

A sob swallows her words, and Sansa can feel the tears on her cheeks, as her husband wraps her in his arms.

“Hush, Sansa,” Jon murmurs, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Don’t cry, sweet.”

“It is a good match, I know it,” Sansa weeps, burying her head in his chest. “But Mya has only just bled, and she would be away from me, away from the North.”

“If she consents,” Jon reminds her, brushing away a curl of red. “Mya is of the North. She may not wish to leave home.”

But there is something within Sansa that tells her that her only daughter is far too like her in small ways; she only weeps at songs, and often clamours to hear tales of jousts and dragons.

It matters not that Mya knows her father is a dragon with the name Snow, or that the South haunts her mother.

Mya is made of hope and dreams; a constellation of idealism.

“We must offer her the match,” Jon says quietly. “It would not be fair for us to refuse. And Dany is kin. You know she is kind, you know no harm would come to our girl.”

“The Queen may be kind,” Sansa murmurs, “but the court never changes.”

“We must give her the opportunity,” Jon whispers. “Our girl may be like Arya in some ways, but she is made of the same flesh as her mother. She may wish for a Prince, just as you once did.”

When Ned makes Alysanne a Stark, draping a cloak of grey and white on her shoulders, Sansa turns to Jon.

“Mya shall make the choice at her next name day,” Sansa says, resolute in her decision.

Jon smiles, and presses his lips to her hand. “You are a good mother, Sansa.”

Sansa returns his smile, but not even she could hide her pain.

 

* * *

 

 

“But why is he to come North?”

Mya is confused.

Her mother sits before her with a patient expression, while Alysanne continues to embroider.

“The Queen in the South wishes for her son to be fostered her for six moons,” Sansa explains simply. “We’d hope it might make your decision easier.”

Mya glowers at the reference to the betrothal, before she flees.

The Godswood is her comfort, but today, it is shared with her father.

“My little wolf,” Jon murmurs as Mya sits beside him. “You look cross.”

“Mama is talking about the Prince again.”

Jon cannot help but smile. “Ah, but the Prince is coming here.”

“I don’t wish to talk about the Prince, Papa,” Mya snaps, before she sighs. “Sorry.”

“Your tongue is sharp,” Jon says with a nod, “and I shall hope your future husband’s ego is strong enough to take it.”

Mya bites her lip, looking around the Godswood. It is quiet, with the summer wind sweeping leaves of red and pollon into the sky. Steam rises from the pond, and Mya imagines it is the breath in her lungs, moving in and out.

“Do you wish for me to marry a Prince, Papa?”

“I only wish for you to be happy,” Jon murmurs, wrapping his arm around his daughter’s shoulders. “I would wish for someone who’s worthy of you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Prince Aemon has hair of silver.

Mya watches with keen eyes as he dismounts his black stead, a wide smile on his face as he kneels before them.

“Uncle Jon!”

The King in the North, and the Prince of Dragonstone embrace, and Mya wonders if this is what it is like, when her father travels South. Her mother always refuses to accompany him. Mya knew the whispers of why, of course; terrible things had happened to her mother in the South.

It is why her mother holds her hand tightly, an anchor to Winterfell.

“Your Grace,” Prince Aemon says, kneeling before her mother. “I offer you my respects.”

“Rise, nephew,” Sansa says with a smile, allowing him to take her hand. “It is nice to meet you at last. My husband has only kind things to say.”

Sansa can see the Tyrell in the Targaryen’s smile, and she finds herself four and ten again; hoping to be taken far from the Red Keep.

When Aemon stops in front of Mya, he offers her a soft smile.

 _Violet eyes,_ she thinks, her stomach churning.

“Princess,” He murmurs, pressing his lips to her hand. “You are a welcome flame amongst the snow.”

Mya rips her hand from his, glowering. “It’s summer snow, my prince. ‘Tis not a true fall.”

Aemon’s eyes widen with surprise, before his lips twitch.

Mya can feel her father’s glare on her, but she does not wilt beneath the Dragons princes gaze.

“That…” Robb says from beside her, as Aemon is escorted by Ned into the Keep, “… was quite the display, little sister.”

“Shut it, stupid,” Mya snaps, to her brother’s laughter. “I was being honest. If he wishes to compliment me, he could do so without trying to write a song.”

“But you love them,” Robb teases, and Mya’s cheeks burn hot. “Mayhaps he is trying to please you.”

“He can please me without calling me a flame amongst snow.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ghost is slow in his old age.

“Come on, Woof!” Mya pleads, using her old pet name for her father’s familiar. “It is just one ride in the wolfswood! You can catch the hares, like you used to.”

“Do you make a habit of talking to wolves?”

Mya’s head snapped up, and her mood is sullied.

Prince Aemon wears a smile, and leans against a stable pillar – dressed comfortably in furs. Even in Northern dress, he sticks out like a sore thumb.

“He is not just a wolf,” Mya says, her tone clipped as she comes to run her hand through Ghosts fur. “He is my father’s companion. He protects our family.”

Aemon chuckles. “I know who Ghost is, Princess. Your father brought him South often.”

Mya purses her lips, adjusting her skirts. “What do you want, then?”

Aemon laughs loudly. “Why would I want anything?”

“You’re here, annoying me,” Mya says simply, crossing her arms over her chest. “You must want something, unless my brothers have sent you out here once again. Because if they have, you need only name who it was and they shall get a right bullocking.”

Aemon blinks at her curse word, and his smile seems to widen, if possible. “Do all Northern ladies speak that way?”

“No,” Mya says with a shrug, feeling her cheeks burn, “but I am no Northern Lady.”

“Then what are you?”

“I,” Mya says, as she walks past him, “am a Princess.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Why did you invite him?” Mya hisses, as she spots Aemon adjusting his saddle.

Robb sighs. “Because he’s nice, and we’re kin.”

“Barely,” Mya snaps, going back to tend to Winter. Fury burns deep within her gut at Robbs decision to invite the Southron Prince, who she had managed to avoid for most of the last moon. “And you know I don’t like him, Robb. This was meant to be a fun day, just us two, before you go to the Riverlands.”

Robb has only just been named their Uncles heir – to take the House of her grandmother once the Blackfish dies.

He looks properly scolded then, as if she is Mother. “Aye, I know, but mayhaps it’ll be nice for you to get to know him before I go. What, with Ned in Karhold with Alys and Rickon in his lessons, you won’t have anyone to annoy.”

Mya jabs her fingers into his side. “I would sooner go to the brothel in winter town for company than-“

“Ready?”

If Aemon senses Mya’s animosity, he says nothing of it.

“Ready,” Robb says with a nod, happy to be away from Mya’s sharp fingers.

Muttering curses beneath her breath, Mya mounts Winter to the sound of Aemon sputtering.

“What are you doing?” He asks, shocked.

Mya looks around for the commotion that has prompted such a response, but can only find Aemon staring at her with wide eyes. His long, silver hair is bundled behind his neck in the same way her father wears his hair.

“What?” Mya asks, looking around.

“You’re riding like a man?”

Mya finds herself more incensed than she thought she could be. “Like a man? I wasn’t aware you could ride a horse like a man.”

“Well, in the South...” He trails off, suddenly realising he has made a mistake.

“Well, in the North,” Mya replies cuttingly, tightening her hold on the reigns as she moves her filly, “women use their thighs to ride, just like a Southron knight.”

It is Aemons turn to glower at her, but Mya doesn’t seem to mind – openly returning the foul gaze.

“Right,” Robb says, thoroughly overly the awkwardness. “Shall we race?”

Mya is most at home on her horse, and so she flies – her red hair flowing behind her and her riding leathers warmth against her skin.

She can hear the shouts of her brother, but she spurs Winter on so they are truly flying.

When she beats them, as she always does, she cannot hold in her laughter.

Her father tells her she looks like her mother the most when she laughs, and so she takes pleasure in that fact. Her mother is, after all, the most beautiful woman in all of Westeros.

Aemon is panting when he asks her, “Where did you learn to ride like that?”

Mya shrugs. “Well, I suppose I am not as good as a _man_ would be, but I seem to manage.”

 

* * *

 

 

When the minstrel comes, Mya finds herself weeping.

It is Rickard who laughs, and nudges Aemon. Robb has been gone a moon already, and Ned has only just returned, bringing with him a wife with a swelling belly.

“See?” Rickard says. “She is hopeless. Weeps as soon as he opens his mouth.”

But Aemon cannot look away.

He never can.

 

* * *

 

 

The first time she is kissed by a dragon is in the Godswood.

They are fighting, as they always seem to be.

“It makes no sense,” Mya complains loudly. “Why anyone would want a crown, I do not know.”

“You do not even have an inkling as to why one would wish to be a King?” Aemon asks, amazed. “Endless money, Mya, and power to do things your way.”

Mya shrugs. “But the gold isn’t endless, Aemon. And you can’t do anything you want – otherwise the people would riot and your head would be on a spike.”

Aemon laughs, breathlessly, as she turns away from him. Mya is dressed in a gown of green today, and her scarlet hair is wrapped in ribbons of grey. His chest contracts, and his fingers twist, for how he wished to lay his lips on hers.

“You truly don’t get it?”  

Mya looks over shoulder. “I shall never be Queen, so what does it matter, really?”

“But what if you were?” Aemon asks, taking a step towards her. Desire burns in his gut, and he remembers what his mother had told him. _You are a Targaryen, my love, and dragons always do fall for Stark women._ “A Queen, that is.”

Mya laughs, turning to face him. “But I never shall be, silly. If Ned dies, Gods forbid, Robb shall take his place and Rickard shall take his place as Lord of Riverrun.”

“You could be a different Queen.”

The words tumble from his lips, awkward and desperate.

Mya’s jaw drops, and her cheeks warm with the shock that fills her. “There are only two Queens in Westeros, Aemon.”

“I know,” He says, before he crashes his lips onto hers.

He doesn’t see her fist, but he feels it when it cracks against his cheek.

He cries out in surprise, stumbling away.

Mya’s hands are at her lips, her cheeks truly aflame now. “That wasn’t very nice.”

“I’m sorry!” He says, for he truly is. Shame floods him at the thought of what he has done; what he had presumed. He hadn’t acted on his feelings for months - it was only when Rickard pointed out the way Mya was beginning to warm to him that he thought _maybe_ she shared what he felt.

Aemon feels like his father, then, apologising profusely. His mother would tease him endlessly if she knew. _Ah, but my sweet summer Prince,_ she would say, _you are your father’s son and you carry his goodness in you to a fault._

Mya turns away from him, embarrassed. It is her first kiss, after all. But not even she can ignore the way her stomach goes up in flames, a storm of wild horses filling her belly and demanding attention.

Her desire is a stampede, and so she turns to him, saying, “That was my first kiss.”

“I’m sorry,” Aemon says again, holding his head in his hands. She knows she has not truly hurt him; she has seen him fight, after all, and not even her brothers seem a match for the Southron Prince.

“You should have asked,” Mya says, cross. It is the only way she knows how to talk to him – with an air of spite.

He opens his mouth to apologise once more, but she silences him as she steps forward. “You can have my second, if you ask.”

Violet eyes meet ice, and he dares a smile. “May I?”

Her lips are on his in a second, her arms wrapping themselves around her shoulders. He groans at the feel of her warmth as he pulls her to him, suckling on her tongue.

When they break apart, Mya cups his cheek, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Aemon breathes. “I shall always ask.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa vowed never to return South for anyone, but it is her daughter that asks.

“I cannot marry without my Mother there,” Mya murmurs, pleading with her. “But I understand, Mama, if you cannot. I shall tell Aemon that we shall have a wedding in Winterfell, and I’m sure… I’m sure he will be fine with it.”

Sansa smiles at her daughters attempts to justify having a wedding in the North, and takes her face in her hands. “You are my only daughter. When you were born, I held you at my breast and marvelled at how perfect the Gods had sought to make you. Of course I shall come with you, my love. The ghosts will haunt me either way, so I may as well be brave.”

But Sansa finds herself clinging to her husband when she sees the Red Keep, and forcing the bile from her throat, when she spots the Sept.

Daenerys gives her a large smile when they embrace.

“It has been years, Sansa,” The Queen says, and Sansa can still see the bells in her hair.

“I would have stayed away longer if I was allowed,” Sansa admits with a laugh, “but, alas, the men of your House persuaded me otherwise.”

Dany smiles affectionately, and welcomes her into the Keep.

“It’s different,” Sansa comments, as she looks out over the sea. “Much different.”

“Dany has made many changes,” Jon murmurs, wrapping his arms around her waist and placing his head on her shoulder. “The Sept has also been completely rebuilt.”

Sansa wants to retch, at the thought of the Sept.

“Thank you,” Jon whispers as they make love that night.

Sansa is breathless atop him, pleasure seeping through her as he moves within her. “For what?”

“For coming back.”

She comes with a cry, and her King soon follows.

“I didn’t do it for you,” Sansa admits, tracing the scars on her chest. “I doubt I would even do it for Ned, if he asked, or Robb. Does that make me awful?”

“Mya is a girl of five and ten,” Jon whispers between kisses, “who has the look of her mother. You are protecting her.”

Sansa closes her eyes, inhaling the strong scent of her husband. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep her safe, Jon.”

Her hand has turned to a claw at his chest, and she can feel herself begin to cry. For all the years that had passed, for all the happiness she seemed to have, nothing can numb the pain of the South. Nothing can wash away the blood that stains the steps of the Sept in her memories; nothing can take away the screams she heard when her father’s head was taken.

For all that spring has been good to them, winter was cruel.

Her stomach rolls.

“Dany is kin,” Jon murmurs, “and before I was your King, I was a Southern Prince.”

Sansa scoffs. “You were a Northern bastard, actually.”

Jon grins, and nips at her skin – his hand coming to rest on her breast. “She shall be safe, my love. Aemon is a kind man; a match worthy of our wolf.”

“I know,” Sansa murmurs.

And she did.

When Mya sheds her cloak of white and grey; and instead dons the red and black, Sansa wishes to weep.

But Jon is by her side, his hand in hers.

“She wears it well,” Jon whispers, a smile on his lips as their blue-eyed babe kisses her Prince.

“A true dragon,” Sansa murmurs, but the words taste wrong in her mouth.

Jon grins. “A wolf will never be a true dragon.”


End file.
